Beauty is a woman named
Sharon Forsyth.
I know this woman. She is a cleaner, an organizer, a card player, a family woman. She is a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend. She loves history and genealogy, is civic-minded, and enjoys an occasional hike through the woods. She has an incredible green thumb and raises dogs and humans (chickens, horses, cows, cats, and goats, too.) This woman is a giver: time, money, advice, sweat, tears...she'll turn it all over to you, whatever she has for whatever you need. Her mind is the trifecta: common sense, intelligence, and wisdom. She laughs and she cries; she yells and she whispers (mainly she yells because she is slightly deaf.) Her name is Sharon, and she is my mother.
My mother is a force. She is opinionated and strong-willed, loud and occasionally abrasive (see, I come by it honestly.) She was born in the South and raised in the North; her heart is all Belle, but her mouth is Yankee tried and true. She's one of those people you either love or hate; with her there is no in-between, and I don't think she'd have it any other way. She is an all or nothing kind of woman, and her ALL is the all that moves mountains and breaks barriers. She is an overcomer, a pusher, a mover; she doesn't stand still, and she won't back down.
My mother, like many other women, has a story to tell. That story belongs to her, and I won't lay it out here for all the world to see (although maybe one day...,) but I will say that pain is her headliner. The things my mother has seen, the things she's experienced, the secrets in her mind and the anguish in her heart, these things would crumble a lesser woman. These moments, these memories, they would bring most people to their knees. Yet my mother stands. She stands, and she sings, and she smiles, and she plays, and she lives.
My mother is the bravest woman I know. She is the strongest woman I know. And she is the softest woman I know. She is the one who brought me apple juice and spoke in hushed tones to soothe my worries. She is the one who cried every time Little Ann and Old Dan died (because we only read Where the Red Fern Grows 15 times when I was a child.) She is the one who drove to the Girl Scout hut early on a Saturday morning to help me find my troll I left behind. She's the one who so patiently tried to help me write the number eight. She is the one who brought my pet goat to school for show and tell. She's the one who baked cinnamon rolls for after school snacks. She is the one who let me try to rescue a hurt bird. She is the one who looked upon the lifeless body of my classmate, so I wouldn't have to share the burden of the sight alone. She is the one sat down with me every Friday afternoon and did my hair for color guard, making sure to hide the bald spots from where I'd pulled it out. She's the one who wiped my tears when the first boy I ever loved broke my heart. She's the one who taught me to look at things from others' perspectives when life-long friendships were torn apart. She is the one who padded my bank account in college, so I didn't have to eat pb&j every day for the last week of the month. She is the one who made pounds upon pounds of spaghetti to feed my wedding guests. She is the one who has loved my husband like a son since his own mother passed away. She is the one who sat across from me in a Burger King in Birmingham while I waited on the call from my doctor telling me my first pregnancy wasn't viable. She is the one who listened as I cried words of heartache, words dripping in the world's injustice, words of a mother's despair, and all she said, all she needed to say, was, "I know." Because she does know. She knows it all and then some.
I spent this afternoon beating my mother at Canasta, and as the two of us sat at the table with my aunt, my grandma, and my son, I couldn't help but wonder at this woman, this one who carried me not just in her womb but through so many pieces of my life. Despite every hurt, despite every wrong, despite every pain, despite every tragedy, my mother still smiles. She still laughs. She still plays. Despite every act of hate and every unfathomable circumstance she's experienced in her life, she still chooses to love. Every day, she gets out of bed, and she chooses to love, and she chooses to live. I know it can't be easy. I've seen it in her eyes, the way it hurts sometimes. But my mother is a fighter. She fights for love.
On this Mother's Day and every day, I honor the woman who gave me life. There isn't a woman on planet Earth more beautiful to me than she is. When my mom looks in the mirror, her eyes deceive her. She sees aged exhaustion, a body worn down and weathered by life's storms. When I look at her, I see a warrior; I see hope, dignity, and strength, a mighty woman who doesn't bend to circumstance. Her battle scars are stunning - the evidence of a life lived with valor and coated in love. I only hope that when my son is 30, he sees the same thing in me.
I love you, Mom, today and every day. Thank you for being an example, for being a rock, and for loving me in every way you know how. Happy Mother's Day.
